


Working the System

by romanticalgirl



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 14:11:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1094859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've all been there and done that. Now they're trying to do it better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working the System

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bootson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bootson/gifts).



Pete looks up at the building with a quivering ball of fear in the pit of his stomach. He’s never actually been here before, but the building looks like dozens of others he’s seen over the course of his life. He could probably describe the inside without setting foot through the door. Drab walls and grimy windows. Hallways that smell like watery food and desperation.

“You must be Pete.”

He starts and glances at the front door. There’s a tall guy standing there. His hair is a messy blob of curls, badly in need of a cut. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt and a hideous neon green hoodie. Pete thinks maybe the building vomited him out like something out of a horror movie. 

“I’m Gabe. Saporta. We spoke on the phone.” He comes down the steps and holds out a hand for Pete to take. Pete does, still looking him over. Gabe’s tall and thin and something about him makes Pete think that he’d be just as likely to start trouble as he would be to get someone out of it. “Which makes me sure that you _can_ speak.”

“Oh. Right. Yes. Pete.” Pete actually shakes Gabe’s hand and then pulls his own away, shoving both of his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “So. This is the place.”

“Yeah. This is the place. You want a tour?”

The answer screaming through his head is no, but he nods. “Might as well get to know the lay of the land.” He follows Gabe inside, stopping just inside the door. “Um.” The walls aren’t drab. They’re a riot of color, tagged with names, graffiti in a hundred different styles stretching as far as the eye can see.

“My art guy. He encourages expression. I like to think of it as a yearbook. Names and pictures that the kids want, not what someone gave them, not something posed for a group of people with fake smiles and plastic combs. 

“This isn’t what I expected.” Pete’s not sure what to think. Gabe was strange enough in his casual outfit. Pete’s used to hard-nosed administration guys in suits and ties and bad haircuts. Gabe’s only got the bad haircut. 

“What you expected is part of the reason these kids feel so fucked up. They don’t do well in the regular school system, so we stick them in ‘special’ schools that are really just the same thing only stricter. What they can’t teach them through regular classrooms, we try to force into them by putting them in buildings that feel like prisons with more rules and more punishments and more consequences. Seems like a pretty stupid business model to me.”

“Right, but...”

“And I get results, so no one’s come after me yet to tell me that I can’t do what I’m doing. Eighty percent of my kids graduate on time with decent grades. They know a skill that will get them into the workforce, they know how to manage their money, and they don’t feel like they’re pieces of shit that the system doesn’t give a fuck about.”

“Wow. Where were you when I was growing up?”

“In Jersey. Growing up.” Gabe smiles, and Pete grins back. “So. Let me show you around.”

**

Pete looks at his classroom and frowns. It’s pretty boring compared to the rest of the school, but then, most of the kids probably think history and political science are boring too. He can hear the class next door – English, he thinks – and it sounds like people are having a good time. Gabe told him the teacher used to be on Broadway or something, and it sounds like it. His voice projects through the walls. 

“So, what are your plans?”

“My lesson plans?” Pete sets his briefcase on his desk and pulls out a composition book. It’s ratty and pages are torn, but it’s the best place for him to think.

“No,” Gabe laughs. “Your plans for the room. How are you going to engage the kids? The last guy just droned on and everyone hated him. The teacher before that was awesome, but she left to get her PhD. Some people.” He rolls his eyes and comes into the room, leaning on one of the student desks. “Bill’s next door making them act out ‘Much Ado About Nothing’ in Pig Latin. After that they think the English version is a piece of cake.” 

“Well, that’s a hard act to follow.”

“I have faith in you.” He tosses a lanyard at Pete, the access card dangling from the end. “It’s still school, just like you’re trained to teach. I just ask that you bring a little imagination to the job. Make it something you’d want to learn. You chose your subject for a reason. Something about it clicked with you. Mattered to you. Share that passion. Make it matter to them.”

“It seemed like the easiest thing when I got my soccer scholarship.”

“Bull. PoliSci isn’t easy. And history’s more than a bunch of dates. You give a shit about something in there. Find it and you’ll figure out what you’re doing here. And how to do it.”

“You’re like a guru or something.”

“Nah. I just drink a lot of Red Bull and open my consciousness to the universe.”

Pete stares at him. “Really?”

“You’ll have to sit in on one of my classes to find out.”

Pete digs some more papers out of his briefcase. “What do you teach?”

“Spanish.” Gabe waggles his eyebrows. “The language of my people. The language of love.” He straightens up and smiles at Pete. “And math. The language of polynomials.” 

“Sexy.”

“You know it. Staff meeting after school, by the way. Out back in the art building.”

“I’m not going to be able to contribute much.”

“You’ll get to meet everyone. And it’s more of a brainstorming session than a formal meeting. I think you’ll like it.”

**

Pete coughs when he walks into the art building, the smoke thick enough to choke a small animal. His head feels light as he inhales, and he makes his way through the haze to the ring of people sitting on the floor.

“Gang. Gang.” Gabe waves his hand through the air, swirling it to encompass everyone around him. “Gang, this is Pete. Pete. This is the gang.”

“You guys smoke up at your meetings?”

“Not all of ‘em.” A gorgeous black man informs him. “Only when I invite everybody out here. I have special dispensation.”

“He’s not connected to the main airflow system,” Gabe nods. “We try to have meetings out here a lot.”

“It’s all a ruse. Gabanti just hates meetings.” The guy extends his arm. “Travie McCoy. Art teacher extraordinaire. The source of light and color in everyone’s life.” Pete reaches out and shakes his hand. “I’m also keeper of the weed.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Travie brings his other hand up and inserts the blunt into Pete’s hand. “Commune with us, my brother.”

Pete takes a hit and sits down in an open space between two guys who look like models. One has short dark hair that’s artfully arranged around his face and he looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. The other has short hair as well, but his bangs are swooped like he’s in a production of ‘Grease’. Grease smiles and takes the joint from him. 

“William Beckett. English. That’s Tom Conrad.” He gestures across the circle to a guy with long hair and a scruffy beard. “He’s auto mechanics. Next to him is Mike Carden. He teaches shop. Lindsey is science. Ryan’s our writing specialist. He helps the kids with college applications and work resumes as well as work placement. And this guy is Mikey. He teaches home ec.”

Eyeliner guy – Mikey - looks at Pete as if he’s daring him to laugh. “Solid. I make a mean quiche thanks to Mrs. Henderson.”

The joint reaches Gabe and he inhales deeply and holds it until Pete’s lungs hurt. Eventually he blows it out and his voice is slightly raspy when he speaks. “My motley crew. My family of misfits.”

William rolls his eyes. “Gabe thinks he’s the prophet of education, bringing us all together like the muses to teach the troubled masses without resorting to actual traditional teaching.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Not at all.” William smiles at Pete then turns it on Gabe. Pete’s not familiar with the twist in his gut at the smile, but it’s there and he doesn’t like it. “We follow Gabe into the fire.”

Gabe takes another hit before killing the blunt. “You guys make me sound creepy.” The whole staff laughs and Gabe flips them off. “Just for that, I’m going to make you talk about school.”

There are three grades in the school, so three sets of classes. Each class lasts an hour and a half to accommodate the unorthodox lesson presentation, and one day a week is devoted entirely to electives. The kids are encouraged to take them all over the course of the three years, but not required. Somehow it seems to work out that they do. Kids who are struggling are brought up in ways that don’t feel derogatory to Pete. Everyone starts discussions with positive things – constants or changes – and then presents their thoughts on solutions before everyone else pitches in.

The meeting breaks up and Pete hangs back to talk to Gabe. He feels lightheaded, but good. Happy. Encouraged. “You guys are like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

“We’ve been lucky. Every one of us has been through the system. Every one of us had someone tell us we were stupid or never going to amount to anything. Every one of us looked for a way out. We all made our way here somehow.”

“I think the kids are lucky.”

Gabe smiles and nods his agreement. “I hope so. They know life is hard when they come here. I want them to leave thinking life has hope.”

Pete nods, walking alongside him. “You and Beckett...”

“What about us?” He glances at Pete. “Ah. Are we fraternizing?” He looks forward again and shakes his head. “Once upon a time. A million years ago. Now we’re just good friends who insult each other and toss innuendo around like a hot potato whenever the kids aren’t around.”

“Is there a policy about it? I know there’s a handbook, but I haven’t exactly read it yet.” 

“The handbook is put out by the district and is complete and utter bullshit. Use your common sense. Don’t yell at the kids, don’t hit anyone, don’t cuss in front of the kids, stay calm. If you think seeing someone at the school is going to make life harder for you, or them, or the kids you’re teaching, then don’t do it. You’re an adult. All my other staff are adults. I can’t exactly expect these kids to feel like they’re safe making their own decisions if I’m second-guessing the decisions of my staff.”

“That makes sense.”

“So who is it? Wait. Let me guess. Travie. It’s always Travie.”

“No. It’s not Travie. I mean, it’s not anyone.” Pete can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. “Shit.”

“Don’t worry.” Gabe says, amused. “Your secret’s safe with me. I will warn you though that he and Bill _are_ fraternizing, and Bill doesn’t play well with others.”

“Noted. But it’s not anyone. I’m just asking. For reference.”

Gabe opens the back door to the school and heads toward his office. Pete follows along. “You know, you’re going to have to be a better liar. These kids can smell a lie a mile away. They’re used to being lied to.”

“I’m not lying!” Pete protests, sighing as Gabe gives him a pointed look.

“Remember how I said all of us were these kids once? We can smell a lie a mile away.”

“Fine. I was asking for a reason.”

“Mikey.”

“No!”

“Oh. Oh, shit.” Gabe laughs. “I made an ass of myself, didn’t I? Lindsey.”

“No. Just...can we just drop this?” He sits on the edge of Gabe’s desk as Gabe packs up his things. “I had an idea for a lesson plan. A non-traditional one.” 

“Yeah?”

“Can I hold class outside tomorrow?”

Gabe doesn’t even looked fazed. “Sure.”

**

Pete ignores the suspicious looks he gets from his first class as he leads them outside. He feels kind of ridiculous, since the majority of the students are taller than him, but their surprisingly respectful. He imagines Gabe told them to be nice until he had some chance to prove himself. Or maybe they’ve just learned that.

Pete makes them all stand in a circle. “I’m Pete. I’m your new history and poli-sci teacher. You’re standing here thinking I’m going to make you memorize a bunch of dates that mean absolutely nothing to you. And I am. A little. But first of all, I want you guys to each tell me something.” Every student groans and Pete laughs. “Not about yourselves. I want you to tell me something about history – an event that mattered to you. An event that changed your life or something about your life. It can be local or in the US or around the world. Something that changed your life for the better. Even if it’s in some small way.”

One of the guys raises his hand and Pete nods to him. “World War II.”

“Too broad,” Pete answers. “And no hand raising. You’ve all played truth or dare, right?”

Another groan and Pete moves out of the circle to grab a soccer ball from beside the field. “I’ll start us off.” He drops the ball in front of himself and looks down at it. “My parents sent me to boot camp when I was fifteen.” He looks up at all of them. “Personal history.” He gives them a weak smile and passes the ball across the circle to a tall Asian girl.

“My great-grandparents were in US internment camps during the second world war.” She steps on top of the soccer ball. “US, world, and personal history.”

“Great,” Pete says. “Well, not great. That sucks, but good job. Pass the ball to someone else.”

The next kid is the shortest next to Pete and he’s dressed like he’s about to go chop down a forest. “Bill Gates invented the PC. Every history.” He passes the ball without a reminder and it goes around the entire class. Pete’s impressed with every comment – Matthew Shepard’s death, the Space Shuttle exploding, a father dying, a sister dying, being evicted, the Japanese tsunami, the Iraq war. Once they go around the circle once, Pete gestures to the last student to pass the ball back to him. 

“Okay. Now I’m going to be a jerk. US history only, no repeats. And you have to tell me why.” The groans are even louder than before, but Pete starts them off again, and they’re on a roll. They’re halfway through international history when the bell rings. Pete dismisses them all and watches them jog across the field. Gabe’s standing at the doorway and gives high-fives or fist-bumps to the students as they pass. After they’re all inside, he strolls over toward Pete, long legs eating up the distance.

“How’d I do?”

“Nice icebreaker.”

“Pretty soon I’ll have them spouting off facts as they play a full game.” He picks up the soccer ball and smiles at Gabe. “They won’t know what hit them. And when we get to government, I’ll teach them a mean game of badminton.” 

“I look forward to the competition.”

“Oh, yeah. All three grades in a death match. Or, you know, I’ll buy ice cream or something.”

Gabe looks at Pete appreciatively. “I think you’re going to fit in here just fine, Wentz.”

“I like it here,” Pete admits. “I’m going to try.”

“Good.” Gabe wraps an arm around Pete’s shoulders and guides him back toward the school. “And about the fraternization question?”

“I thought we were dropping that.”

“We can,” Gabe nods and stops in the hallway. “Or you can go out to dinner with me tonight. Your choice.”

Pete can feel the blush again and he drops the soccer ball, rolling it with his foot. “Can I think about it?”

“Yeah. And you can say no without worrying about repercussions. I mean, it won’t even bother me. You wouldn’t believe the size of my ego.” Gabe waggles his eyebrows. “Or other things.”

“I bet I would.” Pete laughs. “Are you going to observe all my classes today?”

“Your classes. You. I wouldn’t put it past me.”

“See you in an hour, Mr. Saporta.”

“Ah, we don’t stand on formality here. Call me Gabe. Everyone does.”


End file.
